Category: Pastry

Business beckons, gang. I gotta run back up to Chi-town for a couple days. More as soon as I get back!

There are plenty of myths about that, which is hardly surprising. Clara and Jancsi were the sex symbols of the era despite the fact that he was rather wiry and somewhat stooped and she was quite plump by today’s standards. But for the time their looks, especially hers, were considered bewitching.

So read Clara Ward’s hometown newspaper, the Ludington Record, on Christmas Eve, 1896. It was the point at which all reportage on the subject of Michigan’s princess of Caraman-Chimay ceased appearing in the society pages and moved over to the gossip columns. It would stay there for the remainder of Clara’s life.

But what exactly caused Clara to stray into the arms of a penniless restaurant violin player? His raw animal magnetism, the newspapers said. That and his gypsy allure. According to most accounts, the first meeting occurred at a restaurant in Paris where Clara and the Prince were dining. Rigó Jancsi (whose name I’m told means “Johnny Blackbird” in Hungarian) was roving among the tables when his smoldering black moustache — I mean eyes — eyes fixed on young Clara. She was mesmerized. Over successive evenings she would implore her husband to take her back and back to thrill to his languid movements and haunting gyspy melodies. Then, one night, she simply disappeared.

Despite the insistences of (mostly female) chocoholics, all clinical evidence points to no, Reader Connie. I’ve done my best to debunk the purported effects of chocolate’s trace components here, here, here, here and here. Of course all that’s done is earn me a reputation for being no fun. There are hundreds, thousands of pop journalism pieces out there that imply the contrary of course, though if you read carefully they’re always peppered with escape-hatch words like “may”, “could” and “might.”

Huh? A Gilded Age tale of gypsies, royalty, heartbreak and chocolate starts in…Michigan?

Well yes. Sort of. That’s where one Clara Ward was born in 1873. She was the daughter of a Midwestern captain of industry, a man known as the “King of the Lakes,” Eber Brock Ward. His personal fortune was valued at some $6 million ($133 million in today’s dollars) and when he died he left young Clara fully half of it.

Reader Charm suggests that while we’re in Hungary (or thereabouts), we head over to Budapest to sample a cake inspired by a scandalous love affair — the ultra-rich and decadent Rigó Jancsi. Well, we haven’t done chocolate in a while, so…why not?

The Romanian secret police were a running joke in East European intelligence circles. Not because they were any less ruthless than their peers in other Soviet-bloc nations, but because they were hopelessly obvious, given to following people around in knee-length Boris Badinov coats. They were objects of scorn to the Russians. Or at least that’s what a KGB trainee I later met told me. But then who was he to talk? In Russia in the summer of 1986 you could pick out the spooks in tourist hotels by their tell-tale powder blue Nike jumpsuits. But that’s another story.

So by now you may be thinking: this guy’s been to Transylvania so he must have a story to tell about eating real chimney cake. Nope. I never saw one while I was there. In fact I hardly saw any food at all. Life was tough for Romanians in 1986. Even tourists like me had […]